


Lost and Found

by Hellowriters



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Grief, M/M, Modern Setting, Patroclus is a ghost, Patroclus speaks greek, achilles doesn't know why he is grieving, achilles has PTSD, achilles is reincarnated, achilles speaks english, achilles thinks he is haunted, ghost!Patroclus, kind of, shifting point of view
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2019-10-09 00:03:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17396288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hellowriters/pseuds/Hellowriters
Summary: Thetis never comes to write Patroclus' name on the grave, so he is left alone, on Earth. That is until, one day, his ghost meets with the reincarnation of Achilles.





	1. Mundus Senescit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I hope you'll enjoy this story (which is going to be multi-chaptered, btw). I would really like to hear your thoughts about it, so comments are really appreciated.

_**Lost and Found** _

_**Chapter I: Mundus Senescit**_

* * *

 

 _Mundus_ _senescit. The world grows old._

* * *

Death is peaceful, but only for the fortunate, and Patroclus was not fortunate. Always so close, forever out of reach, rest eluded him. Tantalus' punishment on Earth, but what had Patroclus done to deserve it? He couldn't remember. He couldn't remember anything other than his own name. His own name and a boy so golden, that is. It had been a long time since his death, Patroclus supposed. He couldn't be sure. Days passed and came like the birds of summer, but it made no difference to him, for he was wrapped in the blankets of numbness, cold and warm as ever. Time had escaped him, slipped away like water through a broken vase. Patroclus couldn't hold on to it, not if he tried. He didn't try. His life was far, far away, further than it had ever been.

Still, Patroclus did not fade away. He was not swept up like dust in the wind, as other meandering spirits were. Something kept him grounded, tied forever to a place on the ever-changing Earth. A flicker of a memory came to him from time to time, a memory from better times, of a boy. Gracious and bright, warm and beautiful, strong and caring. A memory of soft hands covering his own, of lips sizzling over his own, of the sweetest voice singing his name. _Pa-tro-clus_. Then the memory would evaporate and the hollowness of just existing would take him in its arms once more.

People came and went. The sun shone and so did the moon. Rains poured from the heavens. Dust settled and stone chipped. Trees grew, flowers withered. Time passed mercilessly and soon nothing was the same. Nothing other than Patroclus, but he didn't matter. He was long forgotten, untouchable, unreachable.

Now, everything has changed. Patroclus can't recognize the world around him, not anymore. Tall walls rise up to the sky, but the sky is not there. In its place is a high ceiling, blocking out the sun. Everything is foreign, so foreign. Patroclus rests his head against a stone pedestal, atop of which a golden urn stands encased in clear glass. There are many stone pedestals around, each proudly displaying its own treasure. And there are also people, but they wear strange clothes and act stranger still. Patroclus cannot hear them. He could also choose to not see them, to let them pass and get lost in the claws of time, but for a reason, he does not choose to do so. He watches them, not sure why, he cannot look away. They come near him, men and women, young and old, they come, stop and stare for a moment, then they are gone, as if they had never really been there.

So it goes on, day after day. It seems as if time has slowed down, now flying no faster than a bee through thick honey, which is not fast at all. Patroclus frowns. Why should this be happening? What has changed? Is Fate laughing in his face once more? He does not know. There is nothing he can do, not that he would want to do anything, anyway. For long hours he watches groups of people as they swarm around him like restless ants, then night comes and they are gone, only to come back again tomorrow. And every day is tomorrow. Patroclus cannot say how many weeks have passed like this... Or is it months? Maybe even years. He stays, waits, like a prisoner, knowing there is no escape. So he gets used to it. Soon these fleeting moments would be lost to time and so would Patroclus' awareness of it be lost with them.

But then, on one of this fruitless days, _he_ comes. It is as if the sun spills its warmth upon Patroclus, as if his heartbeat has never left him, as if he can feel once more. The boy slips away from the group of people around him. Patroclus watches as the boy approaches, walking with the grace of a thousand gods, soft features, golden skin and golden hair, eyes sharp and green like the sea, and a smile as bright as ever. Patroclus is frozen, because he remembers this boy, because he has never forgotten him in the first place. A name rings loud and clear and Patroclus knows its his own voice, calling it out loud.

 _Achilles_.

Hope rises in Patroclus' chest like mushrooms after rain, as the boy comes closer.

 _Achilles_ , Patroclus says again.

The boy is now only an arm's length away. He has stopped and is curiously looking at the golden urn. Desperation grips Patroclus, something he hadn't felt in ages, when he sees that the boy is about to walk away.

 _Achilles, it's me_ , he says, the same desperation seeping into his words. He wants the boy to look at him, to notice him. He has been alone for too long. _Achilles_.

Then, as the boy turns on his heel to go, his eyes flicker over to Patroclus for a fraction of a second and they widen almost imperceptibly, but it is enough. Patroclus remembers everything, from love and happiness to pain and sorrow and he does not want to ever let go of the other's gaze. But the next moment the boy is gone and Patroclus is still there, memories of a lost love fresh like a spring of mountain water in his head. And with him gone, so is the warmth that had so subtly enamored Patroclus in the moment, and now he is numb once more.

But how can one go back to the dullness he is used to, after having even the slightest taste of blissfulness? An idea nestled itself in Patroclus' mind and a spark of hope tried to light up a fire in his chest. The viciousness of a fantasy gripped Patroclus with an iron claw and he found himself constricted by it, crushed by its brute force. He could not escape it, not now, after he had had a taste of blissfulness. He wanted, _needed_ to see Achilles again. He needed his warmth, he needed his love.

And so, days pass. Patroclus waits. Achilles does not come.


	2. Mens Rea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter, everyone. Finally!

_**Lost and Found** _

_**Chapter II: Mens Rea**_

* * *

 

_Mens Rea. Guilty mind._

* * *

 

A pungent citrus incense fills the room.

" _Achilles_. It is an interesting name... I suppose you know its story?"

"Yes," he says. _I know it_ , he wants to add. _Almost as if I've owned it_. He stays silent.

"Hm, I see."

Someone stands at the windowsill, watching the hectic city happening outside. Achilles purposely tries to keep his gaze trained away from that spot.

The man in front of him, his new therapist, studies him with a cunning look. It almost feels friendly— his pose in his coppery leather armchair, his bearded smile. It's the eyes that betray him, though. They are stony and calculated, but brimming with a burning curiosity. To him, Achilles is a mystery in need to be unraveled.

"Tell me about Achilles."

"He was... a greek hero," Achilles says, tasting hesitation.

"A tragic hero, yes." The therapist nods, his eyes are latched on Achilles' figure. Nothing can escape him now, he notices everything. "Please, continue."

"Seriously?"

"Mhm. You said you are familiar with his story."

Achilles feels insulted. He is no liar. "Of course I am!"

"Then, please, continue."

A feeling of contempt washes over Achilles. He doesn't like the man, he doesn't trust him. A part of him wants to get up and leave, but something keeps him grounded, rooted in his seat. It is not easy to contain his feelings, his anger, but it is not impossible either.

"Okay. Not because you asked, but because I want to."

The man nods again.

"Okay. Achilles was a greek hero, he fought in the Trojan war. His story is told in the Iliad."

"What else?"

"He was a demigod, son of mortal king Peleus and the nereid Thetis. He was the best of the greeks, invincible on the battle field."

"Why did he die, then?"

"Hm?"

"You said he was invincible on the battle field. Why did he die, then?"

The sadness that comes with the question is not for nothing. It is fresh and old at the same time, familiar and constant, and it scours Achilles from the inside.

"I... I don't know."

"Oh, but I think you do."

"He is shot with a poisoned arrow. That's why he dies."

"Alright. Then tell me about Patroclus."

"About..." _Patroclus_. The name weighs heavily on his tongue, and even more heavily on his heart. Achilles doesn't know why. It weighs and it burns and it kills him on the inside.

His eyes skitter to the window, and notices that the person from before is no longer there.

"Patroclus," the man repeats, capturing Achilles' attention. As he observes Achilles, his eyes sparkle. The first piece of the puzzle is in its place.  
"Don't you think that the death of Patroclus is also the death of Achilles?"

"I..." There are no words.

"The moment Patroclus dies, wearing Achilles's armor, is also the moment when Achilles's invincibility is vanquished. Achilles is no longer the _"god"_ he was before, nor is he human, for Patroclus was Achilles's humanity, his true _Achilles's Heel_. At this point Achilles wonders if it was his fault, if the glory of war was worth the life of his dear friend. From then follows a brief time in which Achilles seeks retribution and death, which he finds sooner rather than later. "

Pain tightens Achilles' chest, shortening his breath. White spots fill the corners of his sight and he is thrust into a vision—unbearable heat, a beach, a tent, a body in a shroud, _grief... so much grief_. Then, he is back on the leather armchair in the therapist's office. The grief is still there and Achilles feels the familiar sting of tears in his eyes.

"Deep breathes," says the therapist. "In... and out... in... and out..."

It takes a while before Achilles takes control of his breath again and his eyes regain focus. The grief is replaced shortly by embarrassment, then by a slow burning anger. Anger aimed at himself _and_ at the therapist.

"Mister Morrison, I came here to get rid of those episodes of whatever, not to plunge headfirst into them," Achilles barks bitterly.

"Yes, I suppose you are right. I might as well take my guess, which by the way is not a guess, but rather a well-founded conclusion drawn out after our meeting today. From what I've seen, I believe you suffer from a form of PTSD—"

"PTSD? Why would I suffer from PTSD?"

The therapist leans forward in his seat and pensively rubs a hand over his jawline. "Your name."

Achilles makes a face. "My... name? _What?_ "

"Yes, I believe you suffer from a form of pseudo PTSD or borrowed PTSD. The underlying stress which causes the PTSD comes not from a traumatic event in your past, but rather you borrow the traumatic event through your name from your namesake, Achilles the greek hero."

Yes, Achilles takes the information doubtfully. His eyes dart over to his side where a young man stands. He is almost transparent, unless you look at him with the corners of your eyes, and wears a white... _dress_? His eyes are latched on Achilles, in a way that almost feels like begging, and his face is familiar.

Achilles feels like he knows him, like he has known him his entire life, but he can't figure out how. The answer, it is on the tip of his tongue. Despite how much he tries to remember though, Achilles keeps hitting an invisible wall which gives him a splitting headache every time.

 _Yes, Achilles takes the information doubtfully_. He is pretty sure that he is either being haunted by the ghost of a young man, or he has something more than just PTSD.


	3. Memento Mori

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I updated so fast.

_**Lost** **and Found** _

_**Chapter III: Memento Mori.** _

* * *

_Memento mori. Remember that you must die._

* * *

_To die young_.

Achilles always used to think that he was going to die young. It was a bizarre feeling, a perennial awareness somewhere inside him, that when he imagined the future, there was nothing. Nothing for him, nothing at all.

At nineteen he takes part in the Olympics, and wins. He is a swift runner and people adore him and he loves it that they do. By twenty four he has enough money to last him two lifetimes. At twenty five he retires from sports. People don't understand— a phenomenon like him could have lasted yet another ten years. He pays them no mind. He is twenty six when he thinks— _this is the year I'm going to die_.

Then, he turns twenty seven.

* * *

His PTSD episodes became lesser after seeing Mr. Morrison over a period of three months.

Mr. Morrison is a clever man, good at reading people and even better with words. He knows which questions to ask and which answers to give, and Achilles' enmity towards him has reached the sky. Achilles dislikes most people these days, but Mr. Morrison _knows_ him, and it fills him with hatred. But Achilles craves the therapy sessions like he craves air after running ten miles every morning. The cathartic feeling of exposing his self is what Achilles lives for these days, and it sometimes makes him feel like a masochist. To leave your soul in the open is a very foolish thing to do.

Not his entire soul, though. Achilles has a secret. He doesn't know why he hasn't shared it yet, but he knows he is not going to share it any time soon. It feels too personal and, simultaneously, not his own. It is the ghost, a young man's spirit, a man around Achilles' own age. Ghost, as Achilles nicknamed him, appeared at the once with his PTSD episodes, but did not go away as the latter did. Ghost comes and goes, but when he is there, he _is_ there. Like Achilles' shadow. Ghost does not scare Achilles, he isn't malicious, not at all like any spirit from any horror movie ever.

Whenever Ghost is there, Achilles fills up with sorrow. It's automatic. Achilles can't help it, he doesn't want to. Sometimes he lies in his bed and Ghost is watching him from the doorway, grey and faded. Ghost's face is carved in stone, unflinching, immovable, but his eyes are not; they are full of pain and grief of his own. At times like this, tears fall silently on Achilles' cheeks, hot streams of water that he can't stop, and Ghost moves closer, hazily like in a dream. He stares down at Achilles with his doleful eyes, and gently tries to brush his fingers over Achilles' tear-stained face. Achilles closes his eyes, waiting, but the hand never touches his skin, and when he opens his eyes, Ghost is gone and it feels like he had never truly been there. Then Achilles cries some more.

"At first, I didn't even want to consider therapy."

Mr. Morrison, who was typing on his laptop, raises his eyes to meet Achilles, but Achilles is staring emptily at the window, glimpsing at him with the corner of his eye.

"I'm glad you reconsidered," he says. His almond eyes narrow and he runs a hand over his bearded jaw. "Achilles, I know you want to get better— you have already, considerably —but you must be honest with me. I cannot help you, if _you_ don't want to be helped." He put the accent on _you_.

_Mr. Morrison is a clever man, good a reading people and even better with words._ He is a great observer, he never misses anything, and Achilles blatantly dislikes that Mr. Morrison can read him so easily.

Achilles purses his lips and sighs. He turns to his therapist. Despite his contempt towards the man, Achilles feels compelled to tell him anything he asks about.

"You're saying I'm not honest? I never lie." The words are sour and they leave Achilles scowling.

"Lying by omission is lying, Achilles. If there is anything I should know about... Take your time and, when you are ready, tell me."

Achilles nods with a strong jerk of his chin.

"Mr. Morrison."

"Yes?"

Achilles thinks carefully about what he wants to say. He doesn't want Mr. Morrison to know about Ghost. Not yet. He says, "At first, I didn't think I'd live to be twenty seven."

This sparks Mr. Morrison's interest. His eyes lit up and he pushes down the laptop's lid, sliding further into his armchair. The thing about Mr. Morrison is that he looks at people as a mathematician looks at a problem. Both need solving, both are complex, both have hidden mysteries that, when discovered, would point towards the solution, and Mr. Morrison, respectively the mathematician, would feel very highly of themselves for figuring it out.

"Why is that?"

There is no reason. Achilles shrugs.

"Achilles, the hero, died when he was around your age." Mr. Morrison says it matter-of-factly, his smooth voice gliding over the words easily.

Achilles shrugs once more.

"Have you ever been in love?"

The change of topic almost gives Achilles a whiplash. He remembers Ghost. He remembers what the question was and tries to forget about Ghost. _In love? Achilles?_ He snorts loudly.

" _Pff_ , no. Never in a million years."

Achilles is not made for love. Admiration from others, yes. To love someone himself, no. In high school, he decided that he was never going to be in love, that he was never going to love any other. Love, love, love. All his flings, all the girls and all the boys he fucked— the idea of loving them makes him nauseous. The idea of loving them is repugnant when he thinks about it. The idea of love pains his chest. It hurts. It hurts because he knows he could never love, it hurts because there is no one he could love.

"What about Patroclus?"

"About Pat—" He scrunches up his face, then frowns. "I am not in love with some dead fictional character! Wha— I mean, how— what the hell?!" His skin is electric and buzzing with anger. He sits up abruptly.

"Achilles—"

"See you next week Mr. Morrison." He turns on his heel, and finds himself face to face with Ghost. He freezes.

Ghost is so close, their noses are almost touching. The air around him is cold, cold enough that Achilles' breath comes out in small puffs of steam. Mr. Morrison says something, but Achilles only hears an amalgam of words. His eyes are fixed on Ghost. The more Achilles stares, the more transparent Ghost becomes. Ghost seems most solid when Achilles looks at him from the corners of his eyes.

Then Ghost opens his mouth and says, " _Achilles_ " and a whole bunch of words Achilles can't understand. Ghost's voice is raspy and croaky, like he hadn't spoken for a long time, but it is enough. A jolt of pain streaks through Achilles' chest and his breath stops in his throat. The world blurs and tilts and Achilles steadies himself with a hand on the armchair, and then he is somewhere else.

_A beach. A wooden wall stands high where the sand ends. The shore is lined with ships. There has been a fight somewhere further down the beach. The wall and ships are still smoking. Men are on the ground. The air smells metallic._

_Achilles sits in the warm sand. His heart is beating fast, pounding against his chest. He can feel something has happened. He fears the worst. The wait is_ _unbearable._

_People are coming towards him. He stands up. They are carrying a body. He almost throws up, even before he can see who it is. Because he already knows. They drop him at his feet. He recognizes the face._

_It is Ghost— no, Patroclus._


End file.
